


lest we forget

by jenna221b



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bittersweet, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hopeful Ending, Light Angst, M/M, One Shot, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining, Post-Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), The Blitz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:07:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27661798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenna221b/pseuds/jenna221b
Summary: As two tyres mount the pavement, Aziraphale senses a brief, barely audible hum in the air. He nods. “Yes, that’ll do it.”Crowley raises one eyebrow in a silent question.Aziraphale gestures outside again. “The shop’s protected, you see. From…” He glances upwards, in time to the rise and fall of the air raid siren.Crowley mouths an ‘ah.’ “Clever,” he says.No,Aziraphale thinks. He thinks of buildings destroyed beyond recognition, so many homes he has been unable to save.Not clever at all, actually. Cruel.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 101





	lest we forget

_You drive like it’s the end of the world_ , is probably not the politest thing to say when being given a lift home. So, Aziraphale contents himself with just saying it inside his head. He finds that he’s smiling, despite his chest fluttering with anxiety every time Crowley speeds around a corner. It is so plainly obvious that Crowley loves this car.

Aziraphale’s fingers curl further around the leather handle, balancing the bag of books on his knees. Quite a few things have been made obvious tonight.

It’s raining when they reach the bookshop. There’s a fine mist gathering on the window as Aziraphale peers out, and notes that the front left tyre is just short of the kerb.

“Ah,” Aziraphale says. “I should mention…”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Crowley stiffen slightly, spine straightening against the driver’s seat, as if he is expecting… a rebuke. Aziraphale’s heart sinks. _I thought we’d grown out of being nervous around one another._ But, even as he thinks it, he knows that’s not _fair_ , that Crowley has good reason to be pessimistic. Aziraphale fights the urge to close his eyes, to pray for the car to somehow hurtle them back into the past, moments before that dreadful _scene_ in St. James, and… And, after so very many years of wishing for it, he would get the chance to take back the words of scorn, and just _listen_.

_Stop it. How many more times will you wish for things you can never get?_

Aziraphale taps lightly on the window, indicating the street outside. “Do park a little closer—well, just up on the pavement should suffice.” Crowley’s posture relaxes, so Aziraphale allows himself a moment to tease. “I don’t mind if it’s an inelegant job.”

Crowley snorts. “Oh, I’ll not neglect your standards, milord.” He obligingly turns the key in the ignition, and the car sidles closer to the shop entrance.

As two tyres mount the pavement, Aziraphale senses a brief, barely audible hum in the air. He nods. “Yes, that’ll do it.”

Crowley raises one eyebrow in a silent question.

Aziraphale gestures outside again. “The shop’s protected, you see. From…” He glances upwards, in time to the rise and fall of the air raid siren.

Crowley mouths an ‘ah.’ “Clever,” he says.

 _No,_ Aziraphale thinks. He thinks of buildings destroyed beyond recognition, so many homes he has been unable to save. _Not clever at all, actually_. _Cruel._ He stops the thought from becoming speech. _Enough. Crowley won’t want to hear all that._

What Aziraphale _does_ want Crowley to hear is what he means by saying ‘park a little closer’; that this is a reassurance, an invitation to stay for… for however…

He clears his throat. “Yes, well. That’ll be safe for—for the foreseeable,” he says, then opens the passenger door, and steps outside.

It takes a second or two before he hears Crowley following with a hissed undertone that sounds suspiciously like, “ _Bastard_ heels.” But, when Aziraphale glances behind his shoulder, Crowley is doing an admirable job of walking as if nothing is amiss, as if silently pleading for Aziraphale not to make a fuss.

_You wonderful, ridiculous man._

It turns out Aziraphale is unprepared for the wave of emotion that hits when they both cross the threshold. As Crowley closes the door, Aziraphale realises what the sudden swell in his heart is: the realisation that, after such a long time, he has not returned to the bookshop alone.

He smiles through the feeling. “Make yourself…”

Oh. He supposes that it feels slightly false to say ‘at home.’ Of course, this has been an unspoken home for a good while, but this is equally the first time it has felt anything _like_ a home in years. “Well, sit down, I’ll… get some drinks.”

Aziraphale dithers over the choice, he can’t help it, and ends up preparing both a pot of tea and two glasses of whisky, all set out on a tray. He can hear the rain coming down heavier, now, grating unpleasantly with the siren and occasional doom-laden thuds. He picks up the tray, looks around for a distraction, and sees Crowley lounging on the couch, his glasses tossed on the table, hat and shoes littering the floor. An ache in his chest is eased at the sight, this gentle disturbance of space. It’s another welcome reminder that he isn’t alone. Not tonight.

But then, another bomb falls, sounding far closer than the one before. Aziraphale jumps and some of the hot tea spills over his knuckles, the glasses of whisky threatening to topple, too. “Damn,” he whispers. _It’s safe here, you **know** this, you foolish—_

And suddenly, the tray is gently taken out of Aziraphale’s hands. Crowley.

“No harm done, Aziraphale,” he murmurs. He carries the tray over to the couch. Even though he’s clumsily hopping from one foot to the other, the drinks do not spill.

Aziraphale follows, stumbles over the rug, and tries to tut through the thud of his own heart. “You should _not_ be walking, not after your—your jigging about in the church—”

“ _S’cuse_ me?” Crowley is laughing, flopping back onto the couch as if without a care in the world. “Think you’ll find I checked, and it was very suave, thanks very much.”

“It was certainly something, my dear.”

As Crowley grins up at him, all Aziraphale can think is that he has failed, is _still_ failing. He knows what tonight should be: a reunion, a celebration, a victory. But, he can’t quite…

Crowley’s grin fades into something smaller, something softer. He shifts out of his customary sprawl, and pats the free space on the couch. “Sit with me?”

Aziraphale does. He picks up the glasses of whisky, and passes one to Crowley. There is a long moment of silence in which Aziraphale realises with a little pang of embarrassment that he has already drained his glass, whereas Crowley has barely taken a sip.

“Can I… tell you what I’ve been thinking?” Crowley asks slowly.

 _You can tell me anything_. “You think an awful lot of things, I’m sure.”

Crowley’s lips twitch into something that is not quite a smile. “Well, this is a specific thing. I think…” He inhales deeply, gradually exhales. “Right. I think… your miracle, tonight. S’a big one. Proper stuff. It’s a…. once in a lifetime thing, y’know? Something that should be impossible, like—” His hand waves about, searching for a thought. “—Like, I dunno, stopping time. You only did it ‘cause you absolutely _had_ to.”

Aziraphale’s grip tightens around the glass. _Yes, but why is that? Why can’t I do it always? Why can’t I protect them?_

He keeps the words trapped on his tongue, but Crowley shakes his head, and says, “Shh,” all the same, like he’s heard him.

“And…” Crowley sighs. “I think you’ve been doing a lot of waiting about in the dark, angel. Trying to move this,” he jerks his head upwards, and Aziraphale wonders if he can also feel the thrum of power in the stillness, the assured whispers of _these walls shall not crumble_ , “and give it to… something else. Anything else.”

A pause. With a shaky wave of his hand, Aziraphale refills his glass. Drinks. Pretends like the words aren’t choked when he asks, “How can you possibly know all that?”

Another almost smile. Crowley leans closer, and nudges Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Reckon we’ve been cancelling each other out again.”

 _Oh, Lord,_ Aziraphale thinks. _How I want to kiss you._

He sighs instead, and acts like he doesn’t know his head is now resting on Crowley’s shoulder, or that the fabric of Crowley’s suit muffles the world outside, a world at war. “I don’t believe they’re thinking about this at all,” he murmurs against Crowley’s collarbone. “They only do what…” He sniffs. “What they feel is necessary.”

It’s easier—safer—to say it like that, to pretend he means the people, the city, the world—when they both know he’s staring up at the ceiling.

Crowley’s reply is as certain and gentle as a kiss on the cheek. It’s not quite a promise, but rather a constant, as if there was never any doubt; as if, in the end, it has always been a remarkably simple thing. A given. “Then, we will.”


End file.
